


Scarif Sunrise

by davaia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Paradise Island?, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Light-Hearted, Love and Bang-Bang Shrimp in Outer Space, M/M, Qui-Gon's Lost Shaker of Salt, Romance, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 03:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15501792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davaia/pseuds/davaia
Summary: Twenty years ago, Qui-Gon Jinn left the Jedi Order in the wake of his fallen apprentice. For twenty years, the Jedi Order has been trying to get him back. With galactic crisis looming, the High Council dispatches their only hope to finally reclaim the wayward Master: Obi-Wan Kenobi.The Negotiator.Things do not go according to plan.





	Scarif Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanerontheinside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/gifts).



>   
>  [Get the mood.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0R1Ujz2fkU)   
> 

  
  
  
  


_You just need some Vitamin sea!_

_Sea more of the galaxy, one beach at a time!_

_Become a certified aquaholic!_

There were dozens of vintage-style flimsi-print postcards, sun-faded and their edges curled with age, pinned to the whitewashed, exterior siding. They lined the front door and windows, cheery despite their age and wear, just like many other things in and about the little beachfront cottage with its deep porches and tall, sturdy stilt foundations. 

_Scarif Can Be Your Own Tropical Paradise!_

The Scarif Middle Keys Board of Tourism hadn’t really gained much traction with their flimsi-postcard advertising campaign, and they hadn’t made much of an effort in the thirty years since. Tropical paradise though it might be, there were other, bigger and more paradisiacal paradises in the sector, which came with spicier attractions than glass-bottom boat tours and Bingo-Bongo Night down at Squeegee’s. 

That was probably just as well, though. 

Land development had kept its distance from the place, and so it preserved its anonymity, left to grow into a wild, rambling, tropical jungle. The tides here were mild, the water clear and azure blue, the slope of the sea floor long and gentle before it dropped off into its deepwater shelf. 

For those attuned to it, the Living Force was nearly a sentient thing—a constant, soft heartbeat which surrounded everything like the ocean’s soothing white-noise. Now it was backed by the early-evening, heat-shimmering sounds of the dense tropical forest, and the soft chittering of a ruby-plumed tookie-tookie bird perched at the corner of the cottage roof. 

"If you shit on my porch one more time, I’m going to eat you," Qui-Gon growled from underneath his hat. 

The bird squawked with indignation and took flight in all its majestic, deeply offended glory. 

Qui-Gon Jinn’s section of paradise included four acres of overgrown, beachfront property on a nameless inlet. He’d won the first two acres and the shabby little cottage at a backroom gambling table nineteen years ago. He bought the second two acres with the rest of his winnings, and quietly slipped away into his own, undiscovered paradise. 

For about ten months, at least. 

Qui-Gon was quite sure there wasn’t a single hole in the galaxy he could crawl into which wouldn’t be discovered by the Jedi, sooner or later. Because even on faraway Scarif, the sun and surf and tookie-tookie birds—once or twice a year, for the past eighteen of them—were accompanied by the muted thud of heavy, Temple-issue boots unaccustomed to powdery sand. 

Perhaps the postcards from the Scarif Middle Keys Board of Tourism had actually made it to Coruscant, all those years ago. 

Qui-Gon sighed deeply and considered opening his eyes just so he could roll them. He stayed put, though, in his lazy, swaying sprawl out on the front porch’s rope hammock. Listening. 

This wasn’t quite right, Qui-Gon realized a moment later. He’d run the last Jedi inquisitor off not two months ago—a freshly minted Knight he’d treated to a stiff drink and a plate of bang-bang shrimp down at the cantina, before he’d amiably and mercilessly trounced all the lad’s best arguments for getting him to rejoin the Jedi Order. Not that they weren’t arguments he’d heard a hundred times over. 

Qui-Gon had sent the Knight off with a sympathetic pat on the back, along with one of his flimsi-postcards (' _You can shake the sand from the shoes, but not from your soul!'_ ) and a box of _Coco-Go-Nutty-Nuts (Now with more nutty-nuts!)_ candies for Mace. 

The Order must be in some burgeoning state of crisis to send another after him so soon. 

Qui-Gon waited for it, listening to the familiar thud of boots down the winding, overgrown path; the shuffling side-step around the arekka-palm root he hadn’t got around to cutting, rustling as its leaves were brushed out of the way; the _rattle-rattle-pause-rattle-rattle-pause-rattle-pause_ at the useless, rickety little fence gate… 

"Wiggle the latch!" he shouted from under his hat, same as he always did once-or-twice-a-year-for-the-past-eighteen-of-them. 

Another moment’s hesitation, perhaps in surprise this time, before the gate swung open on the squeaking hinges Qui-Gon hadn’t got around to oiling. 

"Hello there!" a man’s voice called out. "Master Jinn?" 

Posh and Core-bred by the sound of it; this one had an accent that unrolled towards Qui-Gon like a bolt of rich, copper silk. He caught himself thinking that it was a pleasant surprise—there were precious few beings left in the galaxy who spoke like that, in the ghost of a dialect that sounded like old money and older blood. 

Curious. 

"Jinn," Qui-Gon called back, "but not Master anymore." He dragged the hat off his face. 

The Jedi was watching Qui-Gon from the foot of the porch stairs, face upturned and one hand resting on the wooden railing. He’d folded his outer robe over his arm and had a tired-looking rucksack slung over his shoulder. The man looked a bit rumpled around the edges, but had obviously tried to smooth out the worst wrinkles in his clothes, and finger-comb his auburn hair into some semblance of a side-part. 

The sweat plastering it down helped. 

"Apologies," the young Jedi said politely. "My name is—" 

"Stop," Qui-Gon said sharply. He sat up. 

"Beg pardon?" 

"By the looks of it you’re about sixty seconds away from all-out heatstroke on my front steps, Jedi," Qui-Gon said brusquely. 

"I’m really quite alright," the Jedi said with a disarming smile. The corners of his eyes were pinched, though, and just about anyone but Qui-Gon would have missed it. "If I coul—" 

"—You’re wearing triple-woven gaberwool tunics," Qui-Gon interrupted. He rolled off the hammock and to his feet, straw hat still dangling from his hand. "Where did they deploy you from? Hoth?" 

The man sighed and seemed resigned to letting Qui-Gon have the conversation. He wearily trudged up the steps and into the shade of the porch. "Ilum, actually," he admitted. "I was—" 

"Enough. Inside." Qui-Gon pulled open the screen door, motioning the young man in. "Boots off, please. Have you got spare clothes with you?" 

"Nothing but a parka and more gaberwool, I’m afraid," the Jedi said. He carefully set down his Order-issue rucksack and robe next to the door, then leaned against the wall as he tugged his tall leather boots off. His obvious exhaustion made him less than subtle in his curious inspection of the little cottage. 

Qui-Gon had done well to build his home out of the shabby fishing cabin it had first been. The inside was nearly one open room, kitchen in the front and sitting area in the back, with smooth tile floors that stayed cool year-round, and large mesh-screened windows to capture the strong, salty breeze off the water. The house was filled with a happy clutter of houseplants and shells and capiz-chimes and sea-glass and repurposed fishing nets, and every now and again, a gumptious bubble-crab that made it up the back steps and under the couch. 

His bedroom jutted off the side of the house—originally a third porch, which Qui-Gon had closed in and refinished after one too many goose-eggs from the cramped, dormered sleeping-loft over the living area. The 'fresher was built into the rear corner, connected to both the main room and bedroom, and Qui-Gon marched over and flung the wooden door open with verve. 

"Cold shower," he commanded. "I’ll find something for you to borrow that won’t swallow you up entirely." 

The Jedi drifted after him, a smidge less confidently. "Yes, well, I suppose I am feeling rather—" the man frowned, "wobbly." 

"Have you eaten?" 

"Yesterday…" 

"Slept?" 

"A few hours on the flight over." 

Qui-Gon leveled the man with a hard look. "Slept when you weren’t buckled into the upright and locked position?" 

The young man shut his mouth and frowned, thinking. 

Qui-Gon sighed and cranked the shower on, testing the temperature until it ran tolerably cold against his skin. "In you go," he said briskly. "Sit if you need to. Stay there until I can’t fry on egg on your head anymore. I don’t want to have to haul you down to Mukkchukk’s." 

The man trailed in after him on socked feet, already unbuckling his heavy leather utility belt. "Mukkchukk’s?" 

"You don’t want to know unless you have to." Qui-Gon waved a hand towards the 'fresher’s second door. "Bedroom through there when you’re done and ready to change. Clean towels in the cabinet under the sink." 

"Right," the Jedi said. "Yes, well—" 

Qui-Gon shut the door in his face. 

He pulled together a plate of cold leftovers and a chilled pitcher of frostmint tea by the time his wobbly Jedi reappeared, steadier now, and remarkably less red-faced and bleary-eyed. He was wearing a sheepish smile and the clothes Qui-Gon had left hanging on the 'fresher-door handle, cinched and knotted and tucked to keep it all on his smaller frame. 

"I must admit," the man said, hovering next to the counter, "this is rather the strangest welcome I’ve ever received." 

"You’re the strangest inquisitor the Council has ever sent my way," Qui-Gon countered. "No one’s ever—" 

"Ended up in your shower, wearing your clothing within the first hour?" The Jedi’s expression morphed into something between a smile and a grimace. "Usually there’s rather more romancing involved first. Dinner, certainly." 

Qui-Gon barked out a laugh at that, any lingering ire dissipating beneath that unexpected show of good humor. "Well met," he said and held forward his hand, wet and cold from the icy pitcher. "Qui-Gon Jinn." 

The Jedi smiled and accepted it. "Obi-Wan Kenobi." 

"Kenobi?" Qui-Gon arched a brow, still holding the man’s hand firmly. "In the flesh himself," he murmured. "What have I done that the Order’s set the _Negotiator_ upon me?" Qui-Gon released his grip and motioned towards the little glass breakfast-table. 

"You’ve heard that name?" Obi-Wan asked, sinking into the closest seat. 

"Your reputation travels farther and faster than you do, my friend," said Qui-Gon. He set one full drinking glass down in front of Obi-Wan, and prepared a second for himself before he joined him. "You negotiated the Edvary Peace Accord. A monumental accomplishment." 

"And you negotiated the ceasefire that enabled it in the first place," Obi-Wan countered. "It truly is an honor, Master Jinn." 

"Not Master." 

"Jinn?" 

"Just Qui-Gon." He frowned. "How old are you?" 

"Thirty-two." 

Qui-Gon whistled under his breath. "Young one at that," he muttered, then raised his brows. "And they’ve sent you here to escort me back to the Temple, I assume?" 

"Seems to be the rub of it." Obi-Wan pressed the frosty glass against his forehead with a groan of relief. " _Oh_ , small mercies," he murmured. 

"Drain all of that, please. You’re dehydrated," said Qui-Gon, then, "Why you?" 

Water dripped off the tip of Obi-Wan’s nose as he looked up again. "I’m afraid I don’t follow," he said. He took a long sip and then frowned down into his drink. "Cold tea? What an odd notion…" 

"It’s a local drink, and I’ll rephrase," said Qui-Gon. "What precipitated the deployment of the Order’s best asset to come dig up some old backwater hermit?" 

"'Dig up some backwater hermit'?" Obi-Wan echoed, curiously. "You make it sound as though I’ve gone crabbing—like I’ve come to pry you up with a shovel and a bucket out on your beach. Is that really how you think of yourself?" 

"You’re deflecting," Qui-Gon said pointedly. "I didn’t write the book on negotiating tactics, Knight Kenobi, but I scribbled my fair share in the margins." He leaned back in the chair. "Try again." 

Obi-Wan’s smile tightened into something a bit wry, but the look in his eyes could have passed for amusement. "Fair enough," he conceded, and rubbed his thumb through the ring of condensation on the table. "Telos is threatening withdrawal from the Galactic Republic unless import taxes on mid-Rim durasteel are halved. The Telosian Assembly set a six-month deadline for the negotiations to take place." 

Qui-Gon’s humor faded. He stared across the table for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, and with very little question in it. "And what does that have to do with me?" 

"You know what." 

Qui-Gon said nothing. 

Obi-Wan crunched a snap-bean between his teeth and weathered Qui-Gon’s scrutiny with admirable grace. "You’ve been name-requested to lead the negotiations." 

"By which side?" 

Obi-Wan hummed a noncommittal noise. "The very asking of that question would imply you already know the answer to it." He scratched at his jaw, rasping his fingers through tawny, three-day scruff. "Or have an inkling, at least. Though I suppose that’s not a very satisfactory answer…" 

"Negotiator, indeed," Qui-Gon murmured thoughtfully, openly appraising Kenobi now, "dancing in circles faster than a tookie-tookie bird…" It was then Qui-Gon made the conscious effort to really take _in_ his newest houseguest. 

Even in a tunic three sizes too large, linen trousers puddling around his feet and cinched comically tight around his waist, Obi-Wan retained the bearing of some Core-world aristocrat. Or at least the bearing of one gracefully enduring the temporary indignity of Qui-Gon’s wrinkled clothing. Kenobi was likely part of one of those few ancient-blooded, legacy families within the Order, Qui-Gon surmised. 

Obi-Wan’s composure was wearing at the edges, though, evident in the deep shadows under his eyes and slightest slump in his posture. Recovered from the heat, his skin looked nearly translucent, almost sickly, and sun-starved in a way that spoke of long months, if not years of space residency. 

The man looked just about done in, Qui-Gon realized, and he felt a spark of sympathy for him. He was covering well, Qui-Gon would grant him that. "Mace must be very proud," he remarked, making a point to soften his tone, "that his Padawan has grown into one of the most accomplished Knights the Order has seen in centuries." 

Obi-Wan seemed to falter for a moment, unsure how to direct the praise so openly leveled upon him. "I would like to think I’ve done his training credit," he demurred. "You know he’s not the most—demonstrative of people." 

"Not where it counts," Qui-Gon said dryly. 

Obi-Wan seemed to draw up his posture, perhaps feeling a bit defensive. "Yes, well—" 

Qui-Gon cut him off. "On Scarif," he said, "we don’t talk business after three afternoon-standard." He leaned back in his chair and rapped the table. "Finish your tea, take tonight to rest and get settled in. I’ll set you up in the loft." 

  


* * *

  


Scarif never quite reached full darkness; her moons were numerous and colorful, glimmering muted white and blue in the summer-night sky. It wasn’t the slip of moonlight through the curtains that woke Qui-Gon late that night, though. 

A gentle rustling within the Living Force woke him gradually, like a dripping faucet or a muffled voice in the other room. Not unpleasant, just a new chord within the soft, steady-state thrum of his home. 

Qui-Gon slipped out of bed, dragging a loose robe over his shoulders as he padded into the main room. It was almost fully dark, the blinds still closed to dampen the moonlight. As he expected, though, the door to the back deck was open; Obi-Wan was silhouetted where he sat on the edge of the porch, framed by the wood posts and the soft, shifting line where distant sand met water. 

"How are you still awake?" Qui-Gon asked through the screen. He nudged it open and came to stand next to Obi-Wan, eyes forward and fixed on the beach. "Ilum is hard flying. You were all but dead on your feet earlier this evening." 

"I don’t sleep well," Obi-Wan replied mildly. He looked up. "Did I wake you?" 

"Yes," Qui-Gon said, settling down cross-legged at Obi-Wan’s side, arms resting on his knees. "But I don’t mind it. You picked a good night to do so." 

The tide was ebbing, the ocean indigo-dark beneath the glow of Scarif’s moons. But as each wave crested and hit the sand, the water flickered with a billion pulses of spectral light. The eerie phenomenon stretched the length of the shoreline, as far as the eye could see, in broad pulses like blue-green sheet lightning across the white sand. 

"I’ve never seen bioluminescent plankton before. Only read about it," Obi-Wan admitted. "It’s breathtaking—I’ve spent so much time in deep-space I’ve nearly forgotten places like this could exist." He leaned forward to look down the length of the shore. "Though Scarif seems like it could be rather lonely, if you let it." 

"Hardly, what with all the Jedi your Master keeps sending my way." 

"You’re deflecting," Obi-Wan drawled in a perfect mimicry of Qui-Gon’s rough-hewn brogue. He glanced sideways. "I read print and marginalia alike, you know." 

"Fair enough, my friend," said Qui-Gon with a chuckle. "Let your host deflect a little while longer and humor his questions. How long have you been out in the field?" 

"Oh," Obi-Wan said airily, rocking back on his hands, "nearly four years now. Living on the Totha Station in Edvary neutral-space for nearly all of it. Ilum was my first trip planet-side in quite some time." Obi-Wan’s mouth quirked a bit. "Not the top choice for a sabbatical, had it been up to me. The Council deployed me directly from Ilum for this—" 

"Mission?" Qui-Gon supplied dryly. 

" _Assignment_ ," Obi-Wan said instead. "Nothing quite so formal as full-mission status." 

Qui-Gon made a sympathetic noise. The Ilum journey would have meant at least sixteen hours in a cramped one-seater. "I could never set foot in a ship again, and I’d die a happy man for it." Or space, for that matter, but Qui-Gon didn’t say that part aloud. 

"Am I meant to read something implicit within that?" 

"No," Qui-Gon said. "No subtext, no rhetoric. I don’t have the patience or inclination anymore." He smoothed down the sleeve of his linen robe. "I’m afraid my speech is as plain as the rest of me now." 

Obi-Wan laughed. "I’m in for trouble after all, then." 

"I’m afraid your flattery is wasted here, Knight Kenobi." 

"My words are never wasted," said Obi-Wan. "I make sure of it." 

Qui-Gon chuckled under his breath and just shook his head. He felt strangely light, felt centered between Obi-Wan’s gentle humor and Scarif’s strange, otherworldly night-beauty. They sat for a time in easy quiet, watching the foaming ebb and flow of the ocean tide, the blue-flickering ghost-lights of the plankton. 

Obi-Wan shifted next to him. He was still dressed in Qui-Gon’s overlarge tunic, and the collar gaped open when he sat forward to prop his arms against his knees. Qui-Gon’s gaze was drawn sidelong to a large patch of shiny, milky-white scar tissue over Obi-Wan’s left shoulder. 

"That’s an impressive blaster burn," Qui-Gon remarked mildly. 

"Hm?" Obi-Wan glanced up, pulled from his own reverie. "Oh," he said, tucking a hand inside his shirt to rub his palm over the mark. "That’s an old thing—nearly twenty years now, from the skirmishes on Mandalore. I often forget it’s there." 

"Mandalore?" Qui-Gon echoed, eyebrows raised. He huffed out a laugh, turning back towards the beach, and a faint thread of bitterness drifted into his voice. "Deploying children to war-zones. That’s a criminal act on some planets," he murmured, expression clouding over. "Shot on behalf of the Republic at thirteen." His lips thinned. "How old were you when you were forced to cut someone down for the first time?" 

"Qui-Gon." 

"I was sixteen," Qui-Gon continued. He nudged down a splintered section of the porch floorboard, eyes still fixed ahead. "Cornered by the sentient-traffickers on Corellia we’d been sent to investigate. _Sixteen_." His jaw tightened and his voice dropped low. "I appreciate the position you’re in, Knight Kenobi, but I won’t go back to the Jedi. I’ll tell you that now, and I’ll tell you that nothing will change it." 

Obi-Wan, to his credit, didn’t rise to the umbrage in Qui-Gon’s tone. "I’d rather you called me Obi-Wan," he said kindly. 

Qui-Gon shut his eyes for a few seconds, focusing on his breathing, on releasing those old, bitter emotions back into the Force where they belonged. He conceded the moment with a sigh. "Very well," he said. "Obi-Wan." 

"Thank you," Obi-Wan said, and let the silence settle between them again. Despite everything, it was comfortable. Easy. They sat side by side that way, watching the blue-green light of the waves and listening to the _ocean-wind-palm-rustling_ night-sounds of the inlet together. 

"It’s Telos that wants you," Obi-Wan finally said, nearly inaudible beneath the wind and water. "Senator du Crion specifically requested you for the negotiations. He’s adamant about it." He chanced a look sideways at Qui-Gon, expression inscrutable. "The Council was quick to acquiesce to his demands." 

Qui-Gon sighed and scratched at his beard, deeply disappointed but not surprised at the news. "It’s no secret that the Order has been teetering on the edge of bankruptcy for centuries. Perhaps they’re finally losing their balance," he murmured. "The du Crion financial empire provides a swift and convenient handhold." 

Obi-Wan said nothing. A moment later he just unfurled his limbs and rose to his feet, bracing himself on Qui-Gon’s shoulder as he did so. He squeezed it before releasing his grip. "Good night, Qui-Gon," he said quietly. "Thank you for the company tonight." 

  


* * *

  


For all Obi-Wan’s exhaustion, he still managed to wake up far earlier than Qui-Gon anticipated. The sun had barely crested over the ocean before he caught the telltale rustling of blankets in the loft overhead, followed by a jaw-cracking yawn he suspected he wasn’t meant to hear at all. 

Qui-Gon retrieved a fresh pair of just-too-small trousers from the bottom of his dresser, then wadded them into a bundle and chucked it up into the loft. He barked out a laugh at the undignified squawk it got him. "Breakfast in ten, Negotiator!" 

Obi-Wan appeared in eight, eyes brightening at the fresh pot of tarine tea Qui-Gon had prepared alongside his own mug of strong, smoky caf. 

"Help yourself. Mugs in the cabinet," said Qui-Gon from the stove. "Did you sleep alright?" All he got in answer was a vague noise to the affirmative, muffled inside the cup Obi-Wan had already managed to find and fill. "Good," Qui-Gon said approvingly, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. He cut the heat to the hob. "Have a seat, Jedi. Today’s a busy one." 

He watched in satisfaction as Obi-Wan dug into a bowl of rice and eggs scrambled with saltfish and spicy peppers, the heat of it blooming pink over his face and making his nose run. Qui-Gon chuckled and, unbidden, pushed a carafe of icy muja juice across the table. He’d nearly forgotten the enjoyment that came about just from taking care of someone, seeing him fed, comfortable, and happy. During his apprenticeship, Master Dooku had always told Qui-Gon, half fond and half exasperated, that he _had a way with pathetic lifeforms_. The Negotiator could hardly be considered such, but the gratification felt the same. 

He finished his own bowl, then topped off Obi-Wan’s tea. 

"Thank you," Obi-Wan said from behind his napkin, trying to be subtle about his sniffling. "It’s very good." 

"Well, it’s not protein-mash, but I do what I can," Qui-Gon said airily, rising to his feet. "Maybe less pepper next time," he added, before it occurred to him he was already assuming there _would_ be a next time. 

If Obi-Wan picked up on that slip, he certainly gave no indication of it. 

While Obi-Wan finished up and cleaned his dishes, Qui-Gon rifled through an overstuffed storage closet. He resurfaced with a hefty metal toolbox and two wide-brimmed, canvas hats balanced on top of it. "Your boots will be hot, but they’ll have to do for today," he said. 

"Where are we going?" 

Qui-Gon set everything down on the counter and dropped one of the sun-hats atop Obi-Wan’s head. "To see some of the local wildlife," he replied. "Come on. Help me carry the toolbox." 

"Wildlife," Obi-Wan repeated flatly. He nudged the hat back with one hand and popped the box open with the other. He raised an eyebrow at Qui-Gon over the lid. "…With wrench kits and motor oil?" 

Qui-Gon just smiled. 

The walk wasn’t so very long, not even two klicks, and the day was clear with a strong breeze. It was easy and pleasant, up through that same winding, overgrown path from Qui-Gon’s house and along the palm-lined main road. Obi-Wan’s boots crunched unnaturally loud on the crushed-shell surface, compared to Qui-Gon’s soft-worn leather sandals. They neared what passed as the inlet’s town center: a little community hall, a few scattered homes and businesses with open-front awnings, and one gaudy souvenir shop with a chorus line of miniature, grass-skirted bantha speeder-dash ornaments swaying back and forth. 

Qui-Gon had expected Obi-Wan to broach the topic of the Telosian negotiations again, but he didn’t. He just asked the usual questions that came with experiencing a new place—the geography, the weather, the pace of life on the little inlet—until he hitched the toolbox higher under his arm and asked, "And the wildlife?" 

Qui-Gon stopped them another thirty feet down the road, in front of a small house with a fenced-in yard cluttered with bird-feeders and overgrown sparkleberry bushes and what looked like a nest of painted, concrete yard-ewoks. 

The place looked like it had been a mobile home once, but had since gained permanence through the addition of a lopsided front porch and breezy lanai off the side. Sitting in the drive was a behemoth, silver RGC-18 landspeeder—a model that had been the height of luxury about thirty years before Obi-Wan was born. 

"Morning!" Qui-Gon called out. 

The front door blew open like the explosive release of an airlock. Out came a tiny, elderly snivvian who moved with frightening speed, given the walking cane she balanced on. "Qui!" she shouted. "I commed you three days ago! I thought you’d died and left me to rot with my broken speeder!" 

Qui-Gon grinned and clapped Obi-Wan on the shoulder. "Scarif’s most prolific invasive species," he declared. "The Alderaanian snow-bird." 

Obi-Wan snorted out a laugh, then couldn’t help breaking into his own, matching grin. He followed Qui-Gon through the yard, only a step behind. 

"Mrs. Deemo," said Qui-Gon cheerily, "this is Obi-Wan. He’s helping me today." 

"Why’s he smiling so big?" Mrs. Deemo demanded. "People don’t smile this early in the morning without a reason. Lucky boy," she said at Obi-Wan, then brandished a red-lacquered talon up at him. "Keep this one, Qui. You could bounce a credit chip off that keister he’s packing." She whacked her cane against the shiny, chrome hood of the vehicle. "Now fix my speeder." 

Obi-Wan set down the toolbox, pink in the face despite the sun-hat. 

"What’d you do to it this time?" Qui-Gon asked Mrs. Deemo, hands parked on his hips as he considered the speeder. There was a fresh dent in the side. He didn’t comment on it. 

"Kark all if I know," Mrs. Deemo said. "I was driving same as always and it starts making a sound like a BB-unit stuck on the spin-cycle. Like a _chunka-chunka-chunka-scree-scree-chunka-chunka_ kind of deal." She mimed a jerking steering control. 

Qui-Gon seemed to defy the laws of physics when he dropped to the ground, then slid his massive frame underneath the speeder. "You drive this thing like a bat outta hell!" he called out from under it. "Oh, for—how’d you manage to get a paint can stuck in the chassis—!?" 

Mrs. Deemo ignored the question and gave Obi-Wan a speculative look. She poked her rubber-tipped cane at Qui-Gon’s foot. "Thought you were supposed to be helping him." 

Obi-Wan pointed at the ground, deadpan. "I carried the box." 

"Huh," she said, considering him, then seemed to come to some conclusion of her own. "Well I guess that’s just fine, gingersnap." She patted his arm. "Come sit in the shade with me. I want to make Rubee across the street jealous." 

Mrs. Deemo gave them fifty credits and a squashed crumb-cake for their efforts. Fixing a half-smashed, half-painted fence further down the road earned them seventy credits and lunch, eaten on a rickety fishing dock with their feet hanging in the clear water. 

By the time they’d fixed a boat motor and two chiller units, the late-afternoon sun was blazing and Obi-Wan’s arms were trembling beneath the weight of the toolbox, the crumb-cake, a pair of BOGO tickets to Bingo-Bongo Night, three second-hand pairs of linen trousers, one pair of leather sandals in roughly his size, and a dozen sour liwi-fruit. 

Qui-Gon had a bag of fresh coconuts slung over his shoulder. 

Obi-Wan dumped everything onto Qui-Gon’s kitchen table with a groan of relief. "Not to sound ungrateful for the learning experience, but there’s markedly less sunburn involved with interplanetary negotiations. If y—" 

"Ah!" Qui-Gon stopped him, holding up a staying finger. "It’s fifteen after five-standard. We don’t—" 

"—do business after three," Obi-Wan finished for him, eyes narrowing. "Well played." 

"Have no idea what you mean," Qui-Gon said with all the innocence in the world. He thunked the coconuts onto the kitchen countertop. "Why don’t you go for a swim?" he suggested with all the innocence left in the rest of the galaxy. "I’ll start dinner." 

  


* * *

  


Qui-Gon added less spicy pepper to Obi-Wan’s breakfast the next morning. And all the mornings after it. It was an easy change to make, as was the second lounge chair he’d added to the back porch, which was just tall enough to let Obi-Wan stretch his legs out to rest on the railing. 

He was out there now in a relaxed slouch, ankles crossed on the top rail, fingers laced over his chest. Qui-Gon didn’t know where Obi-Wan had found, bartered, or dug up a pair of sun-specs, but they suited him surprisingly well for someone accustomed to monk’s robes. 

"So on Scarif," Obi-Wan called back into the house, "you don’t talk business after three-standard, on Bendudays, on days with three moons visible in the sky, during high-tide, during low-tide, or within eight hours of eating pink shellfish—have I got all that?" 

Qui-Gon answered him from the kitchen. "Sounds about right." 

"Anything else I should know about?" Obi-Wan asked. "No talking business on days with more than thirty-three percent cloud cover? On an empty stomach? On a full stomach?" 

"Do I hear mockery, Knight Kenobi?" 

"Certainly not!" Obi-Wan replied crisply. "What’s obstructing me today, then?" 

"Beach floppers!" 

A pause. 

Quieter, then, barely audible through the open door, "…Beach floppers." 

Qui-Gon appeared in the doorway, looming large with fishing net and straw hat in hand. "Beach floppers," he declared. "Grab the fish-bucket." 

Obi-Wan half-sat up, gawping towards the floor. He pushed his sun-specs back into his hair, as if that might make some difference. 

It did not make a difference. 

"What in the world are you wearing on your _feet?_ " he demanded. 

"Shoes, Obi-Wan." 

"Are you quite sure about that?" 

They were squashy, nearly shapeless, muddy-grey slip-on things made of composite foam, and they looked like they’d seen far better days. Years, really. Qui-Gon rolled his eyes and used the toe of his hideous shoe to nudge the screen door closed. "They’re easily rinsed in the ocean, and they dry quickly." He dropped the sun-hat onto his head and set off towards the beach. 

Obi-Wan rolled to his feet and followed Qui-Gon down the steps. "They’re ghastly." 

"They’re functional." Qui-Gon waved the net at a dirty, upside-down bucket off the side of the house, next to the spigot. " _Fish-bucket_." 

Obi-Wan obediently snagged it. "This smells vile," he said, nose-wrinkled, and jogged after Qui-Gon towards the dune crossover. "Why don’t you just go barefoot?" 

"Full of questions today, our dear Negotiator," Qui-Gon said with a chuckle. "There are sand-spur patches in the scrub-bushes." 

"Wait—what?" Obi-Wan looked down at his own naked feet in alarm. 

Qui-Gon’s laughter drifted back on the warm breeze. "Just stay on the main path, and you’ll be fine! Come on." 

"Oh, _funny_ man," Obi-Wan groused, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. 

_Beach floppers_ were surprisingly literal creatures, and Obi-Wan said as much as he stood at Qui-Gon’s side, watching them with fascination. The low tide had scoured out deep pools and swales along the beach; shapes flickered within them, flashes of iridescent green and blue fins that built white froth up along the edges of the water. 

One bright-scaled fish flung itself up and onto the damp sand. It twitched once, twice, then launched itself on a clumsy, twisting, flopping journey down the shore and back towards the sea. Obi-Wan made a small noise in the back of his throat, something boyish and delighted at the sight. The bucket still dangled at his side. 

"Green-Tailed Lambro Snappers. Schools of them come through once every three months, and they’re left stranded when the tide goes out," Qui-Gon explained. He was seated in the dry sand at the foot of the dune line, rolling his pant legs up above his knees. 

"They’re almost too lovely to eat," Obi-Wan remarked, looking oddly charmed with the intrepid things. 

"Almost," Qui-Gon said, heaving himself to his feet, "but not quite." 

There was an art to catching them. The Lambro were far more slippery than they looked and, when spooked, were prone to bury themselves headlong in the waterlogged sand—which did no one’s dinner any favors. Qui-Gon took one tidal pool at a time wading in slowly, _slowly_ so as not to disturb the Lambro too much. Then he would stand still, waiting with net poised until he could plunge it in, lightning quick, and snag one for Obi-Wan to toss into the bucket. 

"You look like some great, wild stork!" Obi-Wan called out to him twenty minutes, four fish, and three-near misses into their venture later. 

Qui-Gon turned to reply, but never gave one. 

Obi-Wan’s smile was brilliant and brighter than the sun, and for a moment, Qui-Gon lost himself in just watching as the weight of the galaxy fell away from him. Obi-Wan was luminous in the Force, radiating with warmth and joy in a way that made Qui-Gon think of open, sunlit meadows and endless sky, filling every space where Qui-Gon’s breath had been. 

"Have you got all you need, then?" Obi-Wan called out, grinning wide. 

Qui-Gon faltered. "I—" he began, then cleared his throat and recovered himself. "One more!" he called back. "Just when you think you’re done, there’s always a bigger fish." 

Whatever Obi-Wan said didn’t make it to Qui-Gon; the sound of his laughter did. 

  


* * *

  


"Don’t you dare gut those things on the porch." 

Qui-Gon thunked the fish-bucket down onto the bottom step, sloshing water over the side. "It’s my porch." 

"It’s my nose," Obi-Wan fired back, jogging up to the stairs. He’d rinsed the sand off his feet and was tracking wet footprints in towards the house. "I can’t make dinner with all my sinuses blown out." He hovered in the doorway for a moment and wrinkled his nose. "Nothing worth eating, at any rate." 

"Fine, fine!" Qui-Gon laughed. "If you can cook these, you’ll be earning your keep after all," he said, eyes bright with mirth. When he and his cleaned fish came back inside, Obi-Wan had readied the cottage for the evening, easily making himself at home now, it seemed. 

The windows were open to let in the salt-soaked evening breeze; but for the overhead fixture in the kitchen, all the glow-globes were off to take advantage of evening’s warm, red-purple light. The house already smelled like fresh herbs and citrus, the old oven clanking and clicking as it pre-heated for whatever Obi-Wan had in mind. 

"Tired of my haphazard, one-pot meals?" Qui-Gon asked. He set two of the Lambro on a plate next to Obi-Wan’s cutting board, and stored the others for salt-preserving later. 

"Never," Obi-Wan said amiably. "Just repaying kindness in-kind while—" he paused. 

"Hm?" 

"While I can," Obi-Wan finished. 

There was something different in his voice, too subtle for Qui-Gon to put a name to. He glanced over his shoulder, but he couldn’t catch the expression on Obi-Wan’s face before he turned away again. Qui-Gon busied himself scrubbing his hands at the ceramic sink and tackling the few dishes that had already begun to accumulate in it, and tried to lighten the strange mood. "When did you learn to cook? Most Knights survive on ration bars and nutrient packets for the first few years." 

Obi-Wan dumped a handful of sliced ojomina onion into an awaiting baking dish. "I learned rather early on. Have you ever tried Master Windu’s cooking?" he asked dryly. 

Qui-Gon pulled a face in answer. "He set the Initiate refectory on fire once, when we were children." 

Obi-Wan laughed. "Yes, that sounds about right," he said fondly, and shook his head. He flicked his fingertip against one of the flimsi-postcards wedged into the closest kitchen windowsill. 

_If lost, please return to the sea._

"All these postcards and souvenirs you’ve sent back over the years—he’s saved every one of them, you know," Obi-Wan said. "I never knew who sent them until I came here." 

The admission surprised Qui-Gon. He wasn’t quite sure what to say for a moment, then opted for plain and, if he were being completely honest, painful truth. "One of my only regrets in leaving the Order was the loss of our friendship. I don’t think Mace has ever forgiven me for it," he said slowly, weighing out his words. "We haven’t spoken since it happened." 

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment, thoughtful. "Perhaps my Master hasn’t forgiven you," he said, "but I think he still misses you terribly. He’s not blind to the shortcomings of the Order, but he’s never been in a position where he could leave it the way you did. Peel the liwi-fruit? I can’t tolerate it." 

"Let it never be said that the both of us aren’t stubborn, foolish old banthas," Qui-Gon muttered. 

"You could tell him yourself, you know." 

"Obi-Wan—" 

"I’m not implying anything," Obi-Wan said, placatingly. "You don’t have to rejoin the Order to _speak_ to the man, Qui-Gon." 

Qui-Gon couldn’t refute that, so he just asked, "How many liwi?" 

"Three halved and three juiced, please," Obi-Wan instructed, passing the bag over—their bounty for resetting Rubee’s beloved light-up flamingo mailbox. They worked together in pleasant quiet for a time, the only sounds those of the waves outside, Obi-Wan’s precise chopping, and the repetitive scrape of Qui-Gon’s vegetable peeler. The thick outer skin of the liwi turned acrid and bitter under heat—no good for cooking—but worked wonderfully for cold-steeping, crisp and sweet-sour. Qui-Gon dropped the peels into an awaiting pitcher of tea and contemplated asking after Mace. 

Obi-Wan spoke first, though. "You’re not at all what I expected, you know," he said, deceptively light-toned. "The way you’re spoken of back at the Temple…" 

"Not so favorably?" 

"I wouldn’t go that far. I think they try to strike a careful balance between fostering emulation of your negotiating prowess and discouraging emulation of your more— _radical_ tendencies. They paint you as a bit of a—" 

"Loose blaster cannon?" 

"Maverick," Obi-Wan said. "And a bit of a misanthrope, I think." 

Qui-Gon didn’t seem bothered by that. "More charitable than what I imagined, and more truthful than I’d like to admit," he said. "You haven’t found that to be the case?" 

"Certainly not," said Obi-Wan. "I find I quite enjoy your company. And I certainly appreciate your hospitality. You were under no obligation to extend it as you have." 

"I find I enjoy your company as well," Qui-Gon said, more softly than he meant to. "Very much." He noticed a minute later that everything had gone quiet, apart from the _click-scrape-click-scrape_ of his peeler. He paused and looked over his shoulder. 

Obi-Wan was staring at him. _Studying_ him. There was something calculating in that look—assessing, sharp. Obi-Wan made no effort to hide his scrutiny, meeting Qui-Gon’s gaze steadily. Reading the question in it. 

Qui-Gon wasn’t sure what Obi-Wan was looking for, or whether he found it, because Obi-Wan abruptly broke the strange tension between them with a smile. "Well, then," he said, the first to look away as he turned back to his work, "good on the both of us, then." 

Left staring in Obi-Wan’s wake, Qui-Gon capitalized on the energy of that moment. What came out of his mouth surprised them both. 

"You disagree with the Order’s decision to negotiate with Telos. Profoundly." 

Obi-Wan stilled. A moment later he sighed, his shoulders slumped—perhaps from the weight of admission, perhaps from the relief of finally voicing it to someone. "You’re right," he murmured, then decisively sliced the head off the fish in one clean cut. "I believe we’re overstepping the bounds of our duty. Engaging Telos this way sets an astoundingly dangerous precedent." Obi-Wan set the knife down, but still didn’t let go of it. He half-turned his head, not quite looking at Qui-Gon as he spoke in a voice that, although quiet, held strong as steel and unyielding in its conviction. "I would see the Order dissolve in bankruptcy before seeing it serve the galaxy under the thumb of Xanatos du Crion." 

Qui-Gon said nothing else. He started peeling his liwi again, wondering how long Obi-Wan had held that opinion, and how many nights of sleep he had lost over what to do with it. 

Obi-Wan turned back and frowned down at the counter. "Where’s the salt shaker?" he muttered. "I can’t have lost it already—" 

  


* * *

  


Mrs. Deemo appeared on the front walk three days later, two buckets full of fresh mirror-oysters wobbling precariously in the rolling grocery-cart she hauled around for her shopping. "It was a two-fer down at Squeegee’s," she said by way of greeting, then left her bounty for Qui-Gon to carry and shouldered her way into the house like she still owned the place. 

Obi-Wan cleaned the oysters for steaming, while Qui-Gon built a fire out on the beach that drew the inlet’s residents out like fire-moths. That or Mrs. Deemo’s rum-soaked comm-texts to all her neighbors and at least half her holobook club. 

This happened every few months in their strange, little patchwork community—whether through a good day’s catch, or a two-fer down at Squeegee’s, or just an open door and a friendly face at the right moment—these small beach-gatherings which grew with a spontaneous camaraderie. The sort where food and friendship were given freely, and even strangers shook off their anonymity like sand. 

Qui-Gon kept an eye on Obi-Wan throughout the evening. He needn’t have concerned himself, though. Obi-Wan was a familiar face in the little almost-town by now, as well-loved as he could be in all of two weeks—his charm was a natural thing, infectious, unknowingly drawing people in like the flame within a flame. Periodically, he would find Qui-Gon’s gaze through the firelight and cast him a small, strange smile—one that was subtly but fundamentally different than those he gave to anyone else there. 

The moons had long since settled into the night sky, the fire all but ash when Qui-Gon saw his last guest off, and came back down to the beach. Obi-Wan wasn’t there. He was off in the water, linen trousers rolled up, arms relaxed at his sides, one hand splayed wide to let his fingertips skim atop the glass-smooth waves. He stood still, gazing out at the infinite indigo-dark expanse of Scarif’s sea, lost somewhere between the horizon and his own mind. 

Qui-Gon joined him. He kicked off his sandals and waded into the warm surf, soaked well past his knees by the time he reached Obi-Wan’s side. Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped by the press of a hand over it. He raised his eyebrow in question. 

Obi-Wan held his finger to his own lips. 

So Qui-Gon just smiled against Obi-Wan’s palm, and let the ocean speak for him. 

  


* * *

  


Obi-Wan was _moody_. 

Perhaps that word wasn’t quite right, Qui-Gon thought, watching Obi-Wan through the back window. Moody implied a certain sort of sulkiness that didn’t fit the man at all. Two and a half weeks together and Qui-Gon had learned that Obi-Wan’s moods passed like clouds before the sun—noticeable, benign and unobtrusive to all but themselves. He rolled a liwi back and forth under his palm, leaning his hip against the ell of the kitchen counter as he considered his young Jedi. 

_Prone to mental wandering that left Obi-Wan lost inside his own head_. That seemed a bit closer to the mark. 

Obi-Wan had slipped out to the back porch under the guise of meditation well over an hour ago, but just seemed to be brewing up his own personal thunderstorm. Qui-Gon supposed it was as good a place as any to get lost in such a manner. 

The creak of the screen door opening didn’t jar Obi-Wan out of his thoughts, but the frothy pink umbrella-drink did when Qui-Gon waved it in front of his face. 

"You’re ridiculous," Obi-Wan said, but brightened noticeably when he accepted the frosty tumbler with both hands. The colorful drink looked a bit comical with Obi-Wan still seated on the porch deck in a meditative half-lotus. 

"It’s called a Scarif Sunrise. Pink muja and sour-liwi juice, shaken with ice," said Qui-Gon. He nodded out towards the fiery-hued horizon, shimmering with evening’s fading heat. "Only place you can enjoy sunset and sunrise at the same time." 

Obi-Wan sniffed it, then tipped the liwi slice off the rim and took a tentative sip. He nearly snorted it back up. "And the booze?" he wheezed, eyes watering. 

"Coconut rum. Private reserve," Qui-Gon said with a grin. He settled down on the floor at Obi-Wan’s side and clinked his glass against Obi-Wan’s. "Mukkchukk makes it." 

Obi-Wan looked appalled. "The doctor?" 

"Who said she was a doctor?" Qui-Gon snorted into his drink. "She runs the Reel Tip’Sea Cantina down the way. Makes the sort of bathtub hooch that will bring you back from the grave." He stretched out his long legs and let them hang over the side of the porch, then frowned down at the glass in his hand. He poked at the paper umbrella. "Or put you there in the first place," he added. "There’s not much in between." 

"Speaking from experience?" 

"From what I’ve pieced together," Qui-Gon said dryly. 

"Do you even have a doctor here?" Obi-Wan asked with genuine curiosity. 

Qui-Gon shrugged. "Mrs. Deemo is a retired thermonuclear propulsion engineer. Rubee does cross-stitch. We get by." 

"Right," Obi-Wan said flatly. "That’s rather—" he frowned as his curiosity took a new turn, "and no one’s died yet?" 

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said gently, redirecting their conversation, "You’ve been out here trying and failing to meditate for nearly two hours. Your mind has been spinning so hard, you’re about to think us into a hurricane." 

Obi-Wan sighed heavily and scooted around so his back rested against the porch column, and so he could face Qui-Gon directly. He stretched one leg out to rest behind Qui-Gon, pressed against his lower back, and folded the other in close to his body. "Is it so noticeable?" 

"A bit, though only because it’s just the two of us," Qui-Gon reassured him. "I’ve been alone here for a long time. The Living Force is—different," he said, "with you here. It’s easy to tell when something is amiss." 

Obi-Wan considered him for a moment, thoughtful. He took another sip, and then glanced off towards the empty beach. "You’re happy," he said quietly, almost to himself. "I can sense it on every surface—the _contentment_ of this place. The very foundations speak of it," he said. "Sometimes it feels as though I could breathe in the serenity of it. Of you." 

"That so?" Qui-Gon murmured, watching Obi-Wan. "You’ve spent so much time in your own head, I’m surprised you had spare energy for much else." 

Obi-Wan took another sip and managed not to cough this time. "Learned my habits already, have you?" 

Qui-Gon had learned a great many things about Obi-Wan Kenobi in moments like this, sharing the ocean and quiet out on his back porch. Learned he was, indeed, born into one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the Core; that he still dreamed of his grassy homeworld and a towheaded little brother. That Mace Windu had run—actually _run_ after Initiate Kenobi, then knelt down on a dirty landing tarmac and asked the boy to accept him as his Master, twenty steps away from the waiting transport that would have taken young Obi-Wan to Bandomeer. 

Qui-Gon had also learned that help must be foisted upon Obi-Wan before he ever came close to asking for it. "A few," he admitted. He set his drink aside for the moment, staring down at his own hands as he rubbed at the leftover condensation from the glass. "Are your nighttime troubles following you into daylight?" 

"That’s a poetic way to ask about my worries," Obi-Wan remarked. 

"You seem like you’d be more predisposed to poetry than personal interrogation." Qui-Gon held his hand forward in a mollifying sort of gesture. "I fear you’d never speak of them otherwise, is all." 

Obi-Wan’s gaze flicked down to Qui-Gon’s hand. His eyes narrowed, then, and he reached out and caught Qui-Gon by the wrist. "Wait a—" He pulled the hand close to his face, scrutinizing the thick calluses built up along his palm and fingers. Then he rubbed his thumb over Qui-Gon’s skin to feel the faint bumps left from plasma burns. "You cheeky—you _kept_ it," Obi-Wan declared with strange triumph, as if Qui-Gon’s hands had been caught red instead of roughed-up. 

"I can’t imagine what you’re talking about," Qui-Gon countered, voice mild and smooth as honey. "Those are from spanner wrenches and scaling fish." 

"Scaling fish," Obi-Wan said flatly, staring. "With a lightsaber." 

"Big fish," Qui-Gon deadpanned. He softened it with a patient smile and carefully drew his hand back, faint trails of warmth left in the wake of Obi-Wan’s fingertips. "Perhaps my attachment got the better of me in this instance. And you changed the subject, twice over now." _Always deflecting_ , Qui-Gon thought ruefully. "I’d like to help you with your meditation, if I may." 

"Can’t let me get away with anything, can you?" Obi-Wan muttered, but pulled his feet up and shifted around anyway. "Very well," he said, "but we’re going to revisit the lightsaber business later, you and I." 

"I look forward to it," Qui-Gon said demurely, and moved to sit directly behind Obi-Wan, both in half-lotus, both facing out towards the ocean. He pressed his hands to Obi-Wan’s back, thumbs aligned to the ridge of his spine, fingertips pressing into the span of tight-knotted muscle beneath his shoulder blades. Qui-Gon imagined the man would weave his own anxiety into a robe and wear it, if he could. 

"Trust in the peace of this moment, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon instructed him, eyes closed. "Trust your instincts. Your troubles may have a time and a place, but it’s not here. Acknowledge them and separate yourself from them. They have no true power to define you or your experience," he said, his voice a soothing, low rumble. He gathered the Living Force to himself—an easy, abundant thing in this place—and suffused his touch and intention with it. A steadying, guiding hand within Obi-Wan’s meditation. 

It should have surprised him, how easily he slipped back into the role of Master and instructor—he thought he’d left that ability behind along with his old life. Instead, Qui-Gon followed his own advice and acknowledged the rightness of that moment when he felt Obi-Wan’s shoulders soften beneath his touch, the heavy sigh as he began to exhale his tension. 

"Good," Qui-Gon murmured approvingly. "The Meditation of the Slow Waters. Three repetitions, when you’re ready." He waited until he felt Obi-Wan fully relax before he settled back into a better posture, closed his eyes, and drifted down into his own light meditation. 

He left one hand pressed to Obi-Wan’s back. Connected like this, Qui-Gon caught glimpses of Obi-Wan’s outermost thoughts, his most prevalent worries—bits of his Council briefing, of Xanatos du Crion’s fiery declaration to the Senate, deadlines, deadlines, deadlines, and the mounting pressure to meet them like stacking boulders on his weary back. 

Abruptly cutting through it all, a deep and rumbling voice that seemed to reverberate within Qui-Gon’s own chest, layered atop of a drawn-out, needy moan— _Shhh. Grab the headboard, Negotiator. Don’t let go until I tell you._

Qui-Gon jerked his hand back. He sat for a moment, stunned, fingers hovering in the air at Obi-Wan’s back. He distanced his own mind, then, afraid he’d unintentionally delved so deeply into Obi-Wan’s thoughts that he’d accidentally dredged up the very, _very_ personal memory. 

Obi-Wan didn’t stir, too far down to have noticed Qui-Gon’s indiscretion. 

Qui-Gon forced the thought away and turned his concentration inward, back to his own mind. Only when he finished his meditation and sensed a matching stillness from Obi-Wan, did he sigh, open his eyes to the night sky, and quietly ask, "How long ago did Telos set their withdrawal deadline?" 

His only answer came from the sound of the waves and the soft, repetitive song of the capiz-chimes hanging from the porch rafters. Obi-Wan was slumped against the porch column, fast asleep. 

Qui-Gon considered for a moment that he might have been too heavy-handed with Mukkchukk’s bathtub coconut rum, but Obi-Wan’s glass was only half-finished—warmed and watered down from the ice by now. 

A still and peaceful mind was a far better soporific, it seemed. 

Obi-Wan didn’t so much as stir when Qui-Gon gently shook his shoulder, or when he called his name. Qui-Gon took his fate into his own hands, then, when he carefully lifted Obi-Wan from the floor with a muttered, "You’re a puzzling one, Knight Kenobi…" 

Obi-Wan was heavier than he looked, his frame spare, but every inch of it packed with lean, powerful muscle. Qui-Gon briefly considered the logistics of hauling Obi-Wan up to the loft before he scrapped that notion entirely for both their sakes. 

That decided it. He settled Obi-Wan into his own bed, taking only a moment to brush the thin layer of sand off his feet, coarse as it was and prone to get everywhere. 

Qui-Gon took the couch that night, followed into restless sleep by the phantom, second-hand sensation of fingers tightening in his hair. 

  


* * *

  


Obi-Wan slept solidly through the night and shuffled into the kitchen late the next morning, looking worlds more rested than Qui-Gon had yet seen him. The shadows were gone from his eyes, his skin healthier now that it had tanned beneath the sun and a bloom of new freckles. He passed right by Qui-Gon without a word or a glance, heading straight for the kettle and jar of loose-leaf tarine Qui-Gon kept out on the counter for him now. 

Qui-Gon chewed on his piece of toast and watched, unhurried and patient, as Obi-Wan stared down at the counter, lost in his own invisible thundercloud. The sight of the famous Negotiator sleep-rumpled and barefoot, messy-haired and unshaven, huddled in his own robe over a teapot— 

Qui-Gon hid a fond smile behind his mug. 

With tea in hand, Obi-Wan shuffled back through the cottage and shouldered the back door open. He let it bang shut behind himself, and slumped into the deep, wooden lounge chair with a dramatic billow of his robe. 

Qui-Gon let him be. He pottered about the house, giving Obi-Wan the time and space to stew. After almost an hour with the dishes cleaned, rooms tidied, plants watered, and resident Jedi nearly steeped to bitterness, Qui-Gon prepared an offering of iced frostmint tea and went to join Obi-Wan out on the back porch. 

A strong breeze kept the rising, early-afternoon heat at bay, though Qui-Gon still had to squint and let his eyes adjust to the glittering-bright sunlight reflecting off the ocean. He wordlessly held out the dripping glass, which Obi-Wan accepted with a glance of gratitude. 

Obi-Wan had shed his robe over the second lounge chair, and Qui-Gon neatly draped the garment over the porch railing before he settled back into the cushioned seat. Still, he said nothing. Waiting. 

"Perhaps some forms of attachment are worth forgiving," Obi-Wan said to the wind, brow furrowed. 

_Ah_. There it was. 

This wasn’t the first crisis of confidence Qui-Gon had ever ignited within a Jedi, but it was the first time he felt compelled to temper it. "Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon bade gently. He reached over to grip the man’s shoulder, then let his hand rest there with the weight of his reassurance. "There’s no need to forgive what isn’t wrong. Attachment in the right ways, to the right things, can be wondrous. _Revelatory_ ," said Qui-Gon, both patient and kind. He understood well this sort of internal conflict. "There are entirely new realms of the Force which can be explored through love and devotion. And there’s not a thing which should trouble you over that," he said firmly. "Not one." 

Obi-Wan reached up and grasped Qui-Gon’s wrist, acknowledging the words, and glanced sidelong. His eyes were lighter than the ocean, washed nearly sea-glass green in the stark sunlight, but they were just as changeable and fathomless. And perhaps the only other thing in the galaxy which Qui-Gon could find so endlessly captivating. 

"I suspect you might have been my Master, in another life," Obi-Wan said. He was still resting his hand on Qui-Gon’s, heavy beneath the weight of his gratitude. 

"And I suspect, in another life, I would have been honored and humbled to be such a thing to you," replied Qui-Gon with a smile. He jostled Obi-Wan’s shoulder and made as if to get up. "Come on—out of your own head now, my broody apprentice. We have a mission," he said lightheartedly. "Mrs. Deemo’s housekeeping droid is buggy and keeps setting napkins on fire." 

  


* * *

  


Another week passed before Obi-Wan looked over at Qui-Gon, sighed, and finally asked, "You’ve done all this just to give me a tropical vacation, haven’t you?" 

It was hard to deny when they were sitting on an idyllic, white-sand beach together, watching the sky shift with the jeweled colors of sunset. "Of course I have," Qui-Gon readily admitted. "I’m afraid it’s the only one you’ll ever get. You looked half-dead on your feet when you got here." 

"You must have brought me back to life, then," said Obi-Wan with a strange, small smile. "How many of those _’no-business-on-Scarif-after'_ excuses did you just make up?" 

"All of them," Qui-Gon confessed. He wiggled his toes into the powdery sand. "No one comes to Scarif for business." 

He wasn’t quite sure how that would be taken, but Obi-Wan just laughed, easy and relaxed at Qui-Gon’s side. "You’ve slept clear through the night for the past week. Meditation comes easily to you. The very feel of you within the Force is lighter," Qui-Gon remarked. "And you have freckles now," he added with a small smile, and a pointed look at Obi-Wan’s bare shoulder. 

Something about all that seemed to sober Obi-Wan, though only in a thoughtful way. "Imagine that," he murmured. 

"They suit you nicely," Qui-Gon said. "I’m beginning to think you belong in the sunlight." 

_That you belong here_ , he didn’t say. _That you belonged here all along._

Obi-Wan just hummed and pulled his knees up, dragging lines through the soft, white sand. He pushed his hair out of his face, a pointless endeavor against the ocean breeze. "I’m scheduled to return to Totha day after tomorrow." 

Qui-Gon’s heart sank with disappointment. He’d been avoiding this conversation, but he supposed it had to come up eventually. "You’ve lasted far longer than everyone sent before you," he said evenly. 

"I’d be a sorry negotiator if I didn’t work to understand my counterpoint’s point of view." 

Qui-Gon breathed in deeply, holding the air in his lungs for a moment before he exhaled and asked, carefully, "And what do you think?" 

"I’ve never felt peace like this," Obi-Wan admitted quietly, but without hesitation. "Never in my life." 

"Does that trouble you?" 

"Only in that it _doesn’t_ trouble me. The feeling of it is…" Obi-Wan paused, searching for the right words somewhere out in the ocean. "Clear. _Simple_ ," he said. "There’s a… stillness. To it." 

Qui-Gon nodded once, slowly. "Finding what I did here nearly scared the life out of me," he admitted, careful how he chose his words. He’d never voiced this to anyone—because for all his years on Scarif, his visitors had always been so eager to get him to _leave_ , no one had ever asked why he _stayed_. "To spend a lifetime fighting to obtain a true understanding of peace—only to have it gently pressed into my hand, irrespective of everything I thought I knew…" he sighed and dug his feet deeper. "The freedom of that moment was as terrifying as it was extraordinary. Everything fell away but for me and the expanse of the Force. It felt—" Qui-Gon paused then, brow furrowed. "Wondrous and infinite. Quiet. It’s difficult to describe." 

"No," Obi-Wan murmured, gaze fixed on the water. "No, I understand. The Council—they’ve no right to begrudge you for choosing this life." 

"They’re holding matters together as best they can," Qui-Gon said, "but the Order has lost its way. It’s grown into something which can no longer be supported by its foundational ideals." 

Obi-Wan glanced at him. "You would discount the good we do?" 

"Never," Qui-Gon replied, patient as Obi-Wan worked through his own thoughts. "But goodness is not a thing which is meant to be quantified, Obi-Wan. It’s not a game of weights and measures. And even if it were—" he added gently, "the Jedi would make up only a fractional amount of the goodness there is in this galaxy." 

Obi-Wan huffed and propped his chin on his drawn-up knee. "I’ve never been called a dichotomist so kindly." 

"Not a dichotomist. Just…" Qui-Gon smiled. "Young and principled. Admirably so." 

"Yes, well," Obi-Wan muttered, then sighed. "Four weeks in your company has aged me far beyond my time, I imagine. I’ll return to the Temple white-haired. We could be a matching pair, you and I." 

"I’ll never go back, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, low but firm. "The Council can send Jedi here to my dying day, and I’ll never go back." 

"I know." 

Obi-Wan’s expression was deeply thoughtful, almost worrisome to Qui-Gon for the intensity of it. He wanted to smooth away the furrow in Obi-Wan’s brow with his fingertips, but settled for words and gentle teasing instead. "You’d sully your unblemished mission record on my account, Negotiator?" 

Obi-Wan’s answer was a flickering smile. "I’ve never cared for that nickname until I heard it from you, you know," he remarked, then sobered. "I would never ask you to leave this." 

It almost hurt Qui-Gon to hear that, made something tighten inside his ribcage beneath the upward swell of gratitude—of _relief_ for finally having someone at his side who could see this place and _know_ it. He had never felt anything like it, never known he’d been missing it for all the quiet, transformative power of that moment. 

Qui-Gon Jinn had been a broken man when he’d opened the door to his cottage the first time. Had walked through, off the back porch, and fallen to his knees right there on the beach, his face wet before he ever touched the ocean. Let himself be healed, slowly, by sun and sand and saltwater. Let his old life be gently plied out of his hands, and be carried out to sea and lost on the ebbing tide. 

And in all those years, he’d only found one single thing from that old life which he might welcome into his new one. 

Qui-Gon had never realized how draining it was, to feel compelled to justify his own happiness, until he suddenly didn’t have to. He felt humbled, seated there in the sand next to Obi-Wan Kenobi, and deeply grateful to the Force and Mace Windu for having intertwined their paths at all. 

"Scarif can be," Qui-Gon said quietly, watching the ocean. 

Obi-Wan glanced sidelong at him. "Can be what?" 

"A lonely place." 

Obi-Wan lifted his head. He turned to look fully at Qui-Gon, his own expression inscrutable—it was only a moment later that some sort of clarity broke across it. 

Qui-Gon sat quietly, watchful and still, as Obi-Wan knelt up at his side. 

"Look at me," Obi-Wan commanded him gently. He was studying Qui-Gon again, with the same furrowed, thoughtful expression he’d had that night in the kitchen together. This time he found something there that made his eyes light with joy, and his expression blossom into a slow, sweet smile. 

"I’d hoped so," Obi-Wan murmured, then kissed Qui-Gon. 

There was nothing tentative or shy in it; Obi-Wan kissed him deeply and open-mouthed, slow and with such deliberate intimacy, it already felt as though they’d done this for years and he knew exactly how Qui-Gon liked and wanted it. 

It was the easiest decision Qui-Gon had ever made, letting himself sink into that kiss the way he did. He pushed up on his hands, bracing himself on one and curling the other into Obi-Wan’s salt-tangled hair—then around his neck, his scruffy cheek, down over his bare chest to curl possessively over the dip of Obi-Wan’s left hipbone. Qui-Gon angled his head just right to take him in deeper, and Obi-Wan rewarded him with the press of his tongue into Qui-Gon’s mouth. And when he drew his tongue over the seam of their lips, the noise Qui-Gon made wasn’t so much a groan as it was the explosive release of breath and pent-up desire. 

It could have lasted seconds, minutes, hours, could have gone on forever, as far as Qui-Gon was concerned—but Obi-Wan drew away first, only to drag the long, heavy braid of Qui-Gon’s hair over his shoulder and work the leather tie out of it. 

Qui-Gon shivered reflexively at the drag of fingernails against his scalp as Obi-Wan loosened his hair, fanned it out across his bare shoulders. Then Obi-Wan sat back on his heels and considered the tie in his hand a moment. Slowly, deliberately, he wound the long strip of leather around his own palm. He closed his fist around it and glanced up. 

It took only that look and no words at all for Obi-Wan to ask a question, and for Qui-Gon to answer it. For a moment, Qui-Gon thought—hoped, really—that Obi-Wan might crawl into his lap, push him down, and have him right there on the beach. 

Instead, Obi-Wan shifted his weight on his feet, and stood up. He said nothing, and turned back to the house, leaving sunken footprints in the sand and a baffled Qui-Gon in his wake. Obi-Wan paused when he got to the doorway. Turned to find Qui-Gon’s gaze again. He just watched for a moment, thoughtfully rubbing his thumb over the soft, leather tie wound around his left palm. 

Then he slowly worked the drawstring of his linen pants loose. Obi-Wan let them drop, fabric rippling around his feet—leaving him naked, fully aroused, and completely inescapable. He beckoned Qui-Gon with a tilt of his head. 

"Come inside." 

  


* * *

  


Qui-Gon couldn’t differentiate between the ocean air and the taste of Obi-Wan’s skin. He’d forgotten to leave the fan on and it was far too hot for this, and that made it all the better. They’d gotten each other off with nothing but the wet, languorous rub of body-on-body, Obi-Wan heavy where he was bracketed between Qui-Gon’s thighs, panting humid breaths along his throat as they both came hard against each other. 

It had taken the edge off. Burned enough of the fog away that they could lie in the cooling aftermath and truly see each other in this unexplored, new light they had created together out on an empty beach. 

It was peaceful. Right. 

"Mm," Qui-Gon grunted at the top of Obi-Wan’s head. "Come up here." 

"More already?" Obi-Wan teased, but obeyed all the same. He shifted and slid up Qui-Gon’s body with a slick, obscene noise as he settled his weight higher onto Qui-Gon’s chest. "Is this what you wanted, then?" 

Qui-Gon leaned up to kiss Obi-Wan slowly, deeply, tasting salt in the man’s mouth. He brought his arms up, one circling Obi-Wan’s back, the other dragging slow, soothing, meaningless shapes with his fingertips. "I can feel the conflict within you," murmured Qui-Gon. "You don’t have to go back. You know that." 

Obi-Wan didn’t seem surprised that he’d said such a thing. He just folded his arms up on Qui-Gon’s chest, resting his chin atop them as he considered his new lover. "The Order is all I know," he said. "What else would I do?" 

Qui-Gon’s eyes were soft with affection and boundless understanding. "You don’t have to be a Jedi to do the work of one. To espouse the beliefs of one." He nudged Obi-Wan’s auburn hair back, tucking it tenderly behind his ear. "All you have to do is stay," he said, then brushed his fingertips against the mole on Obi-Wan’s right cheekbone. "Accept the peace the galaxy has offered you, and let yourself be happy in it." He smiled and tried to lighten the moment. "Help me fix Mrs. Deemo’s speeder every other week. Make fun of my awful beach shoes." 

It worked, apparently, because Obi-Wan broke into a laugh. He rolled off Qui-Gon and onto his back. "And come home to sleep in your gigantic bed?" he asked with a cheeky grin. "Get thoroughly and magnificently fucked in it on the daily? Homemade breakfast? Fruity umbrella drinks on the beach?" 

"It’s not such a bad life," Qui-Gon said, propping himself up on an elbow, resting his chin on his hand. "And it would be our bed, not just mine." 

"Fishing," Obi-Wan continued. " _Crabbing_." He stretched his arms over his head, dragging his fingers over the driftwood headboard. Curled them around one of the planks, tight. 

_…Shhh. Grab the headboard, Negotiator. Don’t let go until I tell you._

Desire sparked hot in Qui-Gon’s chest. Not an old memory, then—but a very present fantasy, perhaps, playing at the forefront of Obi-Wan’s mind. He tore his gaze and his wandering mind away from Obi-Wan’s hands, rubbing his own palm along the taut muscle of Obi-Wan’s stomach. "If you want to get up that early." 

"And if I said yes?" Obi-Wan asked softly, turning to look at Qui-Gon. Deadly serious now. "If I gave up everything I knew in the galaxy to come live by the ocean with you?" 

"I think we’d both be much happier for it," Qui-Gon confessed. "And I would hope you’d find comfort in being with someone who understands the weight of what you’ve let go." He lay down and curled his arm under Obi-Wan’s head, threading his fingers through damp hair. "Obi-Wan," he bade gently. "There are only two things I’ve ever known, at once, that I could grow to love. This place is one of them." He didn’t need to list the second for Obi-Wan to understand. "I believe you feel the same, too." 

Obi-Wan made a soft noise in the back of his throat, thoughtful. " _Gently pressed into my hand_ ," he murmured somberly. He let his head rest in the crook of Qui-Gon’s elbow, turning to nose against the muscular swell of his bicep. "No," he said quietly, and kissed the sun-tanned skin beneath his cheek. His expression was open, soft with such adoration that it made Qui-Gon’s heart ache for how full it felt. 

"Leaving the Order—it’s not so easy as that," said Obi-Wan. 

"No?" 

Obi-Wan rolled back up to straddle Qui-Gon’s chest. He settled his elbows to either side of Qui-Gon’s head, pushing his hands into long, ocean-tangled, bronzed hair. "I want you to work for it, Maverick. I want you to convince me," he said, voice low, then leaned down and said against Qui-Gon’s lips, " _thoroughly_ and _magnificently_." 

  


* * *

  


* * *

  


"Qui-Gon." 

Nothing. 

"Darling." 

Silence. 

"Sweetheart." 

The arm slung around Obi-Wan’s chest just pulled him in tighter, deeper into the squashy pillows. 

"Mountainous and gloriously hung light of my very strange life?" 

"I like that one," Qui-Gon rumbled against Obi-Wan’s back, voice rough with sleep. He pushed his nose between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades and kissed the warm skin there, damp with sleep-sweat and the heat of a lover’s body against him all night. "What time is it?" 

"Late enough for visitors." Obi-Wan reached back and smacked at Qui-Gon’s hip. "Wake up. Someone’s coming down from the road." 

Three whole months of waking up to a gorgeous, naked, brilliant man in his bed every morning, of having the galaxy all to themselves, and Qui-Gon still resented the interruption. Just a little bit. The novelty of his life with Obi-Wan had yet to wear off, and he doubted it ever would. 

Three whole months since Obi-Wan had tendered his resignation and submitted his final report in the same transmission. 

_We have found our peace and purpose, together._

_May the Force be with you._

In that time, Obi-Wan’s hair had lightened to copper-blond beneath Scarif’s sun, his shoulders darkened with freckles. There was a new lightness to his presence in the Force now—something green-vibrant and fresh that held Qui-Gon in thrall, blissfully captive to anything that was or would be _Obi-Wan_. 

Not a day went by that Qui-Gon didn’t thank the Force that he could know a love like this, in a place like this, for whatever he’d done to deserve it in his life. To find his center within the center. 

And to know his love was met and returned in equal measure… 

Qui-Gon pressed himself even tighter against Obi-Wan’s back, smoothing his hands down the man’s chest. He kissed Obi-Wan’s neck, behind his ear in the spot he loved so much— 

His lover was less interested in waxing besotted that morning, it seemed. Obi-Wan pitched up on his elbow, squinting out of the window, immune to the questing hands on his body. "That’s a silka bead braid, I think." 

"Senior Padawan," Qui-Gon muttered, falling back onto the pillow in amorous defeat. "Trying to appeal to our heartstrings." He kicked down the covers, dragged one of the pillows over his own face, and asked, voice muffled, "Should we make them breakfast?" 

Obi-Wan rolled out of bed and shrugged into the closest piece of clothing he could find. " _We_ should put pants on," he said crisply, and cinched Qui-Gon’s wash-worn old bathrobe tight. "Or at least a towel? Honestly, Qui." Obi-Wan unlatched the screen and casement window, then threw both wide and popped his head out. "Hello there!" he called up towards their visitor, "Which one of us have you come for—?" 

The Padawan stumbled in surprise, head swiveling as he tried to locate the source of the cheery greeting. When he finally caught sight of Obi-Wan leaning out of the bedroom window on the side porch, he awkwardly called back, "Knight—uh, Knight Kenobi?" 

"Excellent," Obi-Wan said, and pulled his head back inside. 

"Shame of nudity is a puritanical Core-world fabrication," Qui-Gon said pointedly. He’d oozed himself out of bed and was stretching his arms high, fingertips nearly brushing the tall, tongue-in-groove ceiling. Still naked as the day he was born. 

Obi-Wan smacked his hand against the flat of Qui-Gon’s stomach. "You’ll scandalize the neighbors," he said, and brushed past his lover into the 'fresher. 

"You’ve met the neighbors," Qui-Gon argued reasonably, rubbing at the tingling spot where Obi-Wan’s palm had landed. "They love nothing more than a healthy, early morning scandal." 

Obi-Wan poked his head around the door, then threw a rolled-up pair of joggers at Qui-Gon’s face. "Put it. _Away_. Jinn." He disappeared into the 'fresher again and shouted back, "Or else I’ll go find another surly beach-wampa to fall in love with!" 

"You just said it was glorious!" Qui-Gon called out even as he tugged the pants on. 

"Oh, for—" Obi-Wan reappeared fully dressed, if a pair of dirty-hamper sweats and an old t-shirt from _Mukkchukk’s Reel Tip’Sea Cantina (Get Shipfaced at the Original!)_ counted as such. "I know what I said, you menace." 

The sound of laughter followed Obi-Wan to the front door, where he plucked two postcards out from their spots wedged into the wooden frame. 

_Stay salty!_

_No one likes a shady beach._

It was a beautiful morning with the promise of sweltering heat—the sky clear-bright, the ocean at high tide and so close, he could almost feel the crashing salt-spray from the front of the house. Obi-Wan bumped the screen door open with his hip and shooed away the pesky tookie-tookie bird perched on the porch railing. 

Their young visitor was, indeed, a senior Padawan—a blue-skinned Twi’lek who stared up at Obi-Wan from the foot of the front steps, agape, the tips of his pointy teeth just visible. His wide-eyed gaze flickered first to Obi-Wan’s bare feet, then to his t-shirt, then to his face, to feet, to face, to feet, to shirt, to feet, then finally back to his face. "Um…" 

"Hello there," Obi-Wan repeated, more quietly this time. His expression was relaxed and friendly, welcoming. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the porch post. "I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, young one." 

The Padawan blinked out of his trance, cheeks flushing purple with embarrassment. "Hello, Knight Kenobi," he said, a bit stiff and formally, "My name is—my name is Idfrie Sachuva. I’ve… come on behalf of the High Council to request that you return to the Temple." 

"I’m not a Knight anymore—just Kenobi. You picked a lovely day to visit, but I’ll not return to the Order. Ever," Obi-Wan said kindly. "Would you care to come in for breakfast?" 

Padawan Sachuva blinked up at him, and looked at a complete loss over what might have been a new record timing at a mission failure. "No—uh, thank you, uh," he stammered, "Knight—Sir, um. Kenobi." 

"Then we’ll pack you something for the journey home, at least." Obi-Wan descended the creaking, sun-splintered steps, hand outstretched with the postcards. "And do pass these along to Master Windu, won’t you? I’d ask that you let him know he’s always welcome here." 

Sachuva accepted the postcards automatically, still staring at Obi-Wan. "What should—" he began, "What do I tell the Council?" 

Obi-Wan just smiled. "Tell them I went crabbing and the crab won."  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>   
>  This story was made possible by the state of Florida, Vance Joy, and viewers like you.
> 
> Also: I’m not sure how widely used the term 'snow-bird' is outside out… the States? North America? Anyway, it’s a nickname for retired northerners who come to the south for the winter, most notably south Florida. Usually resulting in the terrifying and disastrous confluence of wildly incompatible regional driving styles. Also lots of weird elderly men wearing vented-back shirts and riding bicycles.
> 
> Credits! Credits! Credits! [Sanerontheinside](http://sanerontheinside.tumblr.com/post/174336906669/hmmm-would-you-ever-write-a-fic-where) is responsible for the prompt in the first place, and all credit goes to [Markwatnae](http://markwatnae.tumblr.com/post/174386730220/meggory84-punsbulletsandpointythings) and [Meggory](https://meggory84.tumblr.com/post/174387036043/markwatnae-meggory84) and for the bit about Qui-Gon’s heinous space-Crocs. This story was a bit of a group effort in general—thanks for all the wonderful notes on Tumblr about it. Teamwork makes the dream work, y’all.
> 
> Alsoalso: I borrowed Padawan Sachuva from Patrician, where he is also roundly sassed by Obi-Wan in the line of duty. Poor kid can’t catch a break.
> 
> And, as always, these stories are exponentially better because of merry_amelie's wonderful beta work! There's a deck chair and a frosty pink umbrella-drink waiting for you on Scarif, my friend!  
> 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Scarif Sunrise, Printed & Bound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663142) by [The_Goblin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Goblin/pseuds/The_Goblin)




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